Replacements
by Guybrush
Summary: An aging Bond decides it best to start training his replacement. Unfortunatly this proves far more difficult because of an Israeli drug lord. Chapter 2 revised.
1. The Trap

A/N. Been thinking over my story a bit. I gotta say that writers block strikes at the complete wrong time. I've been pouring over my three Bond novels, searching for clues and inspiration. Anyway to make a long story short I'm have rewritten these last few chapters. Nothing drastic is going to change; I just want my Bond to have more of a Connery feel then a Brosnan feel. Tell me if you like this version better than the original. Sorry about he a/n. Read on.  
  
Replacements  
  
Bond was tired. It had been a long plane flight, and in bad weather. Still, he had a date to attend to. He checked himself in the mirror before straightening his tie and slipping on his jacket. The lines in his face were more prevalent now, he noted. "Old age will do that to you," he chided himself.  
  
Before leaving the room Bond slipped into his shoulder holster, and checked the magazine in his Walther PPK. Everything was good. Out of habit he plucked a strand of his hair out and slid it into his top dresser drawer. Just in case. He looked in the mirror one last time first checking for a bulge where his gun was held and next combing his hair with his fingers. Age had been kind to the man. His hair still retained its black sheen, all except for the bit of gray creeping form around his ears. Moneypenny had told him that it made him look more dashing. Somewhat dignified.  
  
He laughed to himself as he opened the door. Dignified. The door clicked shut and he continued on his way down the hallway towards the elevator. He fondly looked back on the days when walking down four flights of stairs wouldn't begin to hurt his knees. The female clerk behind the counter bid him farewell as he left the hotel. He walked into the rather full parking lot and searched for his car. It didn't take him long to spot the silver colored Aston Martin.  
  
The French streets were crowded when Bond pulled onto the Highway. Cars everywhere striving to reach some far-off destination. As he drove Bond mentally ran through the information in his case folder.  
  
He was after a man named Mordic. An Israeli, charged with, drug running, weapons smuggling, and piracy. Dark brown hair, short. A mole under his left eye and piercing dimples. Bond had made a point of memorizing the man's face as not to mix him up with someone else. His skin was pale for a Israeli, Bond noted. Wanted for the murders of over twenty Royal Navy servicemen. One of his yachts had decided to ravage a Destroyer. Fortunately for the Destroyer the yacht was quickly dispatched of. Unfortunately, by the time the boat had been sunk, the damage had already been done.  
  
Thirty minutes after leaving the hotel Bond arrived at the specified restaurant. He pulled in at the front, where a maroon jacketed valet sat. The boy stood and opened the car door for Bond. "Take good care of her," Bond told him tossing the keys to him. The boy caught them and sat in the seat revving up the engine and parking it somewhere off in the distance. The inside of the restaurant was peaceful. It was dimly lit with dark reds, and deep purples adorning the walls. A man in the front looked up from the clipboard of reservations and caught Bond's eye. Bond had seen the man before, it had been a major section of the file, he was an assassin. Francois Gord.  
  
"May I help you, Monsieur?"  
  
Bond nodded and looked into the mans aquiline eyes. "I'm here meeting a woman. Her names Felicia Phelps."  
  
"Yes. You must be Monsieur Bond. Best if we hurry, Madame Phelps is waiting for you."  
  
Bond smiled. "Yes. Ms Phelps is a very impatient person."  
  
Gord laughed. "The woman. They are all alike."  
  
Gord lead Bond to a table where a very pretty brunette sat, looking a bit ruffled at his lack of punctuality. "Nice of you to make it, James," she said smiling up at him.  
  
"Thank you, Monsiuer," Bond said turning to Gord.  
  
"Do not mention it."  
  
With that Bond turned and sat across from the beautiful Felicia Phelps. "I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to keep you waiting."  
  
"Its quite all right," she replied, humor returning to her face. "Your getting old, I guess I can allow some slip-ups."  
  
"There are still a few many things I'm not to old for," he retorted giving her a brillant grin.  
  
"I had hoped."  
  
The night progressed smoothly, small talk throughout. At long last, almost an hour after they had arrived, the target entered the building. He was wearing a dark gray buisness suit, an walked alongside another man also clad in a business suit.  
  
"He's here," she said simply.  
  
"Yes, it seems to be time to get things started."  
  
Bond excused himself from the table and made his way over to Mordic's. "Excuse me, Mr Mordic?" Bond asked coming from behind.  
  
Mordic turned his head. "Yes, I'm Mordic," he said with a wide smile. "You must be Mr Bond. Your employer informed me he was interested in making a business transaction."  
  
"That is right."  
  
Mordic turned to his companion. "I'll be back in a bit. Order for me if you will. Mr Bond and I have some things to discuss."  
  
The man nodded, and greeted Bond with a hello. Mordic turned. "Shall we go outside Mr Bond?"  
  
"That's fine with me," Bond replied.  
  
The valet was sitting in a chair on the verge of sleep when Bond and Mordic exited the building. Gord would be after him soon, hopefully Felicia was ready to do her part. Mordic walked out among the parked cars where alongside him Bond walked. "So, Mr Bond. Your employer, explained that he was sending over a thousand kilos of heroin with you."  
  
"That's correct," Bond replied. "He informed me, Mr Mordic, that you would give me a large briefcase full of money."  
  
"That's what we need to discuss, Mr Bond. You see, I've decided that the previously stated amount of money is to much for the merchandise. Maybe we can haggle to find a better price?"  
  
They were far enough away now, Bond noted, it was time to strike. In one swift motion Bond pulled his Walther PPK from its holster and held it in his right hand aimmed at the man's chest. "Get on your knee's Mordic." Bond commanded him lightly.  
  
Mordic was obviously stunned by the sudden change in behavior and took a step back. "Mr Bond?"  
  
"Get down!" Bond snarled.  
  
"No Mr Bond. I think it is you who needs to 'get down'."  
  
From the surrounding cars four men in black ghille suits appeared all armed with submachin guns. "You see Mr Bond, I have plans and dropping to my knees for a Brittish man doesn't fit in with them."  
  
--  
  
A/N. Well there's Revised Chapter one. I'll have Chapters 2-3 done by tommorow evening. 2 will probably be done tonight. Thanks for the support. Read and review. 


	2. Escape, and Rescue

A/N. Okay this chapter has a lot of the original in it. I did however change the confrontation with Mordic. Enjoy.  
  
Felicia pulled herself out of her chair and watched as James talked to the Mordic fellow. What a strange fellow. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Bond had just exited the building. Now came her job. Gord had left his position at the door and had exited soon after Mordic and Bond.  
  
She pushed her way out and saw the tall dark haired Gord follow the disappearing form of Bond, and Mordic in the distance. As expected Mordic had hired the fellow for a bodyguard. Time to "neutralize defenses". She bent down and pulled the small Beretta from her thigh holster and also pulled the silencer from her purse. It took her but a minute to get the silencer firmly screwed onto the pistol and brings it up to aim at the back of Gord's head.  
  
Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck rose, and a crack sounded. The sniper atop the restaurant pulled the bolt back on his rifle. "Tango two down," he said softly into his radio.  
  
"Appreciated," came the static laced reply of Francois Gord from the ground.  
  
During this, Felicia Phelps lay sprawled across the pavement, her eyes wide staring into nothing, a lead slug in the back of her head.  
  
--  
  
Bond gulped hard. The four-armed men looked at him rather menacingly behind their MP-5's. Time for one, maybe two shots, he judged. Kill Mordic, or the armed men?  
  
"Drop your weapon Mr. Bond," Mordic said walking closer to him. "I find it interesting that you chose this place for attacking me. Your reputation suggested that you might infiltrate my operations and then go to cut off the head."  
  
Bond had already dropped the gun. So Mordic had known the whole time. A rifle butt to the kidney dropped him to his knees. "Secure his hands."  
  
A thick plastic cord wrapped Bond's hands firmly together. "You see, Mr Bond, I got word a week ago about your assignment. I had just that week to read your case files, and predict when you'd strike. I have to say Mr Bond, that I am quite disappointed in you. The legendary assassin 007 being this easy to trap."  
  
"Sorry to disappoint you," Bond bit back. He had to get out of this. His Walther PPK lay in front of him, beckoning him.  
  
"I had everything planned. After I had you on your knees, like I do now, I have Miss Phelps walk out and kill you. Ms Phelps, you see, has been working for me in French Intelligence for years. I thought that the great 007 would like to die by the hands of a beautiful woman. She's late as you can see, so I must resort to what I have." Mordic snapped his fingers and ordered something in his native tongue.  
  
Bond felt the muzzle of the submachine gun at the back of his head and he began to sweat. "Good-bye Mr Bond."  
  
The crack of a gun sounded. The crack repeated itself thrice more. Bond rolled over. Whatever it was this was his chance. He lashed out with his feet at the man in front of him. He fell to his knees and thudded face first onto the asphalt; blood oozing from a hole in the back of his head.  
  
Bond examined the scene. The rest of the assault team lay on the ground dead, Mordic, still standing face bewildered at what had just happened. Hard hands lifted Bond to his feet, and a cool bladed knife cut the cords around his wrists.  
  
"Don't turn around, Monsieur. Get your gun."  
  
Bond recognized the voice, it was Gord. Mordic dropped and twisted, grasping for the Walther that lay on the ground. The Walther sounded and a grunt sounded from behind Bond.  
  
Mordic looked back only once and took off down the parking lot. Bond turned and grabbed up the smoking Glock by Gord's dying body. "Thank-you," Bond said with a curt nod, before turning and chasing the fleeing Israeli.  
  
--  
  
Bond rested in the bathtub, letting off steam in the cool water. His conversation with M hadn't gone very well. She seemed to think that he wasn't performing up to par. Something about him getting old on her. Sometimes he just wished she would die already so they could get a replacement. Replacement. M had brought up retiring again, and every time she brought it up it seemed to look nicer and nicer to him. That would mean turning in his number. 'I almost did that anyway tonight. If it wasn't for Agent Gord, my brain would be filled with lead.' The thought of someone else wearing 007 made him hurt.  
  
He shook off the feeling and massaged his sour shoulder. Mordic had given him a good run before he had escaped. Up the parking lot, down the avenue, Bond thought he could slow the man down by putting a bullet in his knee. No such luck. The bullet entered the leg but missed the joint entirly.  
  
He should've known that Mordic would resort to anything to escape. Even an armed carjacking. Bond smiled thinking of the look on that woman's face as the Israeli stole her vehicle. But still, Mordic should be dead. It was his fault that he wasn't.  
  
He let himself sink deeper into the tub. Millions of thoughts of painful injuries, and the glory of the kill flickered through his mind like a broken television. He was getting older. It was supposed to have been an easy mission. Get the man and take him out. Of course, double agent Phelps, and a quartet of mercenaries had changed the variable in the equation.  
  
He'd been through worse. Murderous agents of SMERSH, voodoo enthusiasts, a man with a golden gun. Maybe it was time to retire.  
  
He retrieved his towel from the floor, and dried himself off. He slipped into a white robe and settled into bed.  
  
The airplane to London took off at five the next day. The flight was packed and the in flight movie was trash, so Bond made himself comfortable and slept.  
  
--  
  
It was dawn in London; the fog was beginning to lift in the morning air. The smell of gunsmoke held a terrible resonance around MI6's shooting range. It was only to be expected however. To some it was a troublesome scent but to one, Jacob Hill, it was invigorating.  
  
He was a handsome man with short brown hair, a medium build, and an experts aim. He held the Beretta in his hand and stood sideways holding his right arm out to fire with. He figured, like many in the past, that in a real combat situation, making you the smallest target was probably a key. The target stood one hundred yards away, looking back menacingly at him. The plastic dummy was his favorite approach to target practice, giving one more of a feel for fighting a live person.  
  
His top button on his dark blue shirt sat unbuttoned, with his tie loosened below it. It wasn't an unusual event for him to work a long hard day at HQ and then go to the shooting range and pump lead into dummies.  
  
The Beretta came to life in his hand spitting the slug out of its muzzle. The bullet fell directly between the dummies "eyes". Hill smiled at his aim.  
  
"You're getting better every time I check up on you."  
  
"Well Q, practice usually does make perfect."  
  
The old man walked up next to Hill. "Maybe you should try moving the target back a bit more."  
  
"Or maybe you could let me into the simulator," Hill countered looking at the man.  
  
"Yes, well, maybe it is about time for the simulation."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
Hill watched the man turn around and walk back to the door; "Of course you'd need to find yourself a partner with the proper credentials before security will let you in."  
  
Hill looked at the man. He was being serious. "I am security," he yelled back at the retreating man. The dummy stood still, seemingly watching him. Hill turned and unloaded the rest of the clip into the lifeless piece of plastic.  
  
A/N. Chapter 3 due tommorow. 


	3. Retirement

M's office seemed particularly cold to Bond as he leaned back in the chair in front of her desk. M was looking through a filing cabinet to the left of the room. She found the folder she was searching for and closed the drawer. "Now, 007, I have something that I want to talk to you about."  
  
She seated herself behind her desk and looked into Bond's hard eyes. "You knew when you took your last assignment that it would be your last. James," she never used his name, "its time you should go into retirement. You've done your duty to your country."  
  
Retirement. the word sounded like some kind of disease. I can no longer work because I was diagnosed with retirement.  
  
"Yes, I remember that conversation. Your point is?"  
  
"007," she was being serious, "if you go out any longer you won't be putting just your life in danger but also the pride of MI6. Its time to gracefully bow out."  
  
Bond stared into her eyes. "We had an arrangement M, I leave until after Mordic's out of the picture. He's still out there. Which means," he said straightening himself, "that I'm still in."  
  
"Mordic," she continued, "Is becoming more of a threat. You're not in condition to deal with him as he is now."  
  
"As he is now?"  
  
"You couldn't handle him when he wasn't expecting it. Now an attempt has been made and failed. he'll have all his attention on MI6."  
  
"I've handled worse things."  
  
"Yes!" she said abruptly, beginning to get frustrated, "But you were in better shape. Your perception was higher, you could move faster."  
  
"And I still can!" He took in a deep breath calming his voice. "If this is about physical fitness, I'll take a test to prove I'm ready for this."  
  
"Even if you were ready for this I've already assigned someone else to the case."  
  
This stopped him. Someone else. She had replaced him already.  
  
"008?" he asked.  
  
"No. Not a double-o agent. We're giving this assignment to him as a test of his abilities."  
  
"My replacement." Bond said reflectively.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Suddenly the intercom beeped. M tapped a blinking button. "Yes, Ms. Moneypenny?"  
  
"A Jacob Hill to see you," Moneypenny's smooth voice chimed back.  
  
"Send him in," M replied quickly.  
  
Hill opened the door and stood by it.  
  
"007, meet Mr. Jacob Hill."  
  
--  
  
For some reason the cigarette in Bond's mouth tasted sour. Bond's PPK was now resting in the MI6 armory, and his badge and credentials were gone. He was, in all respects, retired. The bed in his flat, didn't even seem the same anymore. He felt almost as bad as when Tracy had died.  
  
He stubbed the cigarette into the ash tray on his dresser and turned to the mirror. The gray around his temples made him look somewhat more diginified. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Hill seemed like a competent agent, he would probably be fine working on the Mordic assignment. At the same time though.  
  
Bond opened his drawer and pulled out a small Beretta .22. The first weapon he had used as a double-o agent. He tossed it on his bed, and scooped up his Berns Martin hostler. He made his way into the closet and produced a suit case. Mordic would go down, whether it was Hill intiating his fall or Bond.  
  
--  
  
Hill sat in his seat on the airliner looking out his window at the Atlantic ocean. Everything was happening so quickly. His introduction to James Bond, and then his chance to join the ranks of the double-o agents. Before he had left M had given him a folder of information which he had spent the night pouring over, and Q had left him a beautifully crafted Walther P99.  
  
The seat next to him was filled with the over large body of a fat Chinese man. The man had his head on his right shoulder and was softly snoring. After the inflight movie had ended the man awoke and made his way to the restroom.  
  
Inside the small room the chinese man pulled out a phone and hit a button. "An MI6 agent is on his way. No. Its not Bond," the man laughed. "Kill him anyway? Understood Germain."  
  
The phone beeped off and the man left the restroom.  
  
-- 


End file.
